Maureen the Detective © 2005 by Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Maria Takes a Stand © 2004 by Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Carrie’s Courage © 2005 by Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Anna’s Fight for Hope © 2004 by Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-823-7
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All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Bethany Press International; Bloomington, MN 55438; July 2012; D10003426
Maureen the Detective
Veda Boyd Jones
A NOTE TO READERS
While the Bowman and Stevenson families are fictional, many of the situations they find themselves in really happened. On April 4, 1903, huge crowds turned out in St. Paul when President Theodore Roosevelt visited Minneapolis and St. Paul. The president was in the first carriage of a parade that included veterans from the Civil War and the Spanish-American War, as well as members of the Minnesota National Guard.
Automobiles were still very expensive because Henry Ford had not yet invented the assembly line, but telephones were increasingly common—especially in cities. Most cities did not have car dealerships, and cars were ordered from catalogs. They’d take months to arrive by train. Electric cars were popular because they were easier to operate.
Also, it was much easier for immigrants to become U.S. citizens in 1903 than it is now. At the beginning of the twentieth century, large numbers of people were coming to the United States with dreams of starting a better life.
For Doc
CONTENTS
1. Crazy Old Lady Hoag
2. So Many Changes
3. Spreading Rumors
4. The Job
5. Counting Fingers
6. Maureen’s Secret
7. The Missing Statue
8. Easter Traditions
9. The Birds
10. The Footprint
11. Citizenship!
12. Mark’s Sorrow
13. The Plan
14. A Gift to America
CHAPTER 1
Crazy Old Lady Hoag
Maureen O’Callaghan Stevenson saw it first. She knew the minute she saw it that it would change her life in one more way. She didn’t know how or why. It was just a feeling, but she didn’t know if she could stand one more change.
She and Mark Bowman, a cousin she’d gained when the Stevensons had adopted her two months ago, were down by the creek a few blocks from her house. Mark was skipping rocks a little ways upstream. Maureen had been walking along the bank, searching for flat rocks to throw, when she’d looked across the water and seen something hung up on a huge log. She found a long stick and tried to reach it.
“Maureen!” Mark yelled. “What’re you doing?”
“I’ve found something!” she yelled back. “Come help me.”
Mark scurried to her side. “What’ve you got?”
“I think it’s a woman’s handbag. It’s stuck by that log. See?” She pointed, but he shook his head, and she moved him to her position so he could see better.
“Hmm,” he mumbled. “Why don’t you go out on that log and get it?”
“Do you want to go out there?” Maureen had fallen off that log into the knee-deep water last summer when she didn’t mind getting wet, and her mama had scolded her then. In mid-March there was ice around the banks, and an accidental dipping would be frigid. Besides, she wasn’t about to do something that would cause her new adoptive mother to raise her voice. It wasn’t that she was scared of Nadine Stevenson—she just didn’t want to do anything to upset their new relationship.
“We need a bigger stick,” Mark said.
They looked around the area and found a longer one. It could reach the handbag, but it broke off before they could pry the handbag loose.
Trees lined the water’s edge. Maureen found a long branch that had been blown down by high winds some time ago. Mark used his pocketknife to whittle off the twigs that stuck out from it so it could be a smooth rod.
“It’s frozen in there,” Maureen said as he approached the edge of the creek with the branch.
“We’ll get it out now.” Mark held the branch out in front of him. “Hold on to me.” Maureen grabbed his belt, and he leaned way out to poke at the handbag. He slipped, but Maureen’s strong grasp kept him out of the water. Only the toe of his boot got wet.
Mark jabbed at the handbag, and ice cracked around it. He hooked the branch through the strap, and it came up with a force that knocked him into Maureen. They both fell to the ground. The purse slid down the slick branch right into Mark’s arms.
“Let me see it,” Maureen said. “Boys shouldn’t look in a lady’s handbag.”
He gave the small black leather bag to her, and she opened the clasp. Inside were soggy papers that were frozen together in places. aureen took out the papers and handed the bag back to Mark. She gently tugged on the edges of the papers, separating a few.
“Ooohh,” Mark said excitedly. He stood there with his eyes big and his mouth hanging open.
“Mark? Are you all right?”
“There’s money in here. Maybe a hundred dollars!” He held out a clump of frozen bills.
“Where’d you find that?”
“In this inside compartment, under this little flap. We’re rich.” He pried the money apart and started counting.
“It’s not our money,” Maureen said. “We might find the name of the owner.” She worked at separating the papers. The ink on the top pages had faded and was unreadable.
“Ninety-six dollars,” Mark announced. “We found the money. It could belong to anyone in Minneapolis. There are more than two hundred thousand people. We’ll never find the owner.”
“Men don’t carry handbags, so you can cut that number in half.” She separated an envelope from the wet papers. “Besides, here’s a name. Mrs. Franklin Hoag,” Maureen read.
“Not Crazy Old Lady Hoag!” Mark said.
“Don’t call her that,” Maureen said. She had never met the eccentric woman who lived down the street from her, but she knew all about her. It was actually Mrs. Hoag’s property they were on now. Her house fronted close to the street, but her extensive grounds covered several acres—part wooded, part cleared—and the shallow creek flowed through the eastern part of her land.
“My brother told me she doesn’t ever leave her house,” Mark said.
“That doesn’t make her crazy.” Maureen had heard the rumors that the old woman had become a recluse since her husband had died two years earlier. That was something Maureen could understand. Her mama had died only three months ago, and there had been times she’d wanted to crawl into a hole and never get out. “We have to take this handbag to her.”
“I’m not going to her house,” Mark said. “Look for another name. Maybe it doesn’t belong to her.”
Maureen picked the papers apart and looked at each one. Now that she knew the name she was looking for, she could make out the dim markings as Mrs. Hoag’s name.
“It’s hers. I’m going to take it back. You can come with me or stay here. That’s up to you, but it’s the right thing to do.” She turned to walk along the creek bank toward the street.
Mark hesitated, and for a moment Maureen thought he wasn’t going to follow her, but then he sprang into action.
“All right, I’ll go so you don’t have to go alone. But we have to be careful. She might attack us.”
“Don’t be silly. Why would she do that?”
“You never know with crazy people,” Mark said.
Maureen ignored his remark and quickened her step. The chill of the day was starting to creep into her bones, and she shivered. “I wonder how she lost her handbag. What would she be doing down by the creek?”
“Maybe it was stolen. Maybe she’ll think we stole it.”
“Now, why would she be thinking that? Thieves don’t return things they’ve stolen.”
Maureen could see the high roof of Mrs. Hoag’s house through the bare branches of the nearby trees. The house was huge—a mansion, really. Mrs. Hoag must be lonely living there all by herself, she thought.
“Let’s cut to the street now,” Mark said.
They moved into the wide street and hurried along. Now Maureen could see the front of the house. Round brick columns soared three stories tall, holding up balconies on the second and third floors. It was one of the few homes made of brick, and Maureen’s new mother had told her it had been there for nearly sixty years.
It was stately, but the grounds were unkempt for such a grand place. The winter-brown yard was wild and scraggly. Scattered here and there on high posts were birdhouses.
Maureen led the way when they turned into the yard.
“Maybe she won’t be home,” Mark said.
“If she doesn’t leave home, I’m figuring she’ll be in,” Maureen said.
They climbed the five steps to the wide porch and stood in front of the tall double front doors. Maureen glanced at Mark.
“You knock,” he said.
“If I knock, then you must do the talking,” Maureen said. She’d been brave, feeling a kinship with the unknown Mrs. Hoag because they had both suffered bereavement. But standing in front of the imposing doors, she felt small, and again she shivered.
Mark knocked hard on the door, three times. “You can talk. You saw the handbag first.”
There was silence inside the house.
Mark knocked again. This time Maureen heard footsteps inside. She held her breath as they waited. From the corner of her eye she saw something move at the side window and knew Mrs. Hoag was looking out to see who was on her large porch. It seemed like an hour before she opened one of the double doors, but it was probably less than a minute.
Maureen wasn’t surprised when the door squeaked as the old woman opened it. For a long moment, she stared at Mrs. Hoag. The woman had long dark hair, with barely a hint of gray. It was pulled severely away from her face by large hairpins and hung down her back. Her dark eyes matched her hair. Her eyes were lined with wrinkles as if once long ago she had smiled a lot, but right now her mouth was drawn in a tight line.
“We found your handbag in the creek,” Maureen said in a high-pitched voice that she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Come inside,” Mrs. Hoag said.
Maureen and Mark didn’t move.
“Come inside,” she repeated and stepped back in her long black mourning dress. “Can’t be heating the whole outdoors.”
Maureen took a quick breath. Mrs. Hoag was Irish. She sounded just like Maureen’s mama when she said that. Maureen quickly walked inside the house and Mark followed.
Mrs. Hoag closed the door, which shut with a creak and a groan; then she led the way through a wide entry hall into a big open room. A fire burned in a large fireplace. Everything in the house was big.
“So you’d be finding my handbag down in the creek,” she said. “How do you suspect it got there?”
“We don’t know,” Maureen said. “It was frozen in the ice by a log when we saw it. When did you lose it?” She moved closer to the fireplace, and Mark followed close behind.
“I didn’t lose it. I’m thinking it was stolen.”
“We didn’t take it,” Mark said quickly.
“I didn’t say you did, did I?”
Maureen and Mark shook their heads in unison.
Mrs. Hoag opened the clasp and looked inside.
“Some of the things are still frozen,” Maureen said.
Mrs. Hoag pulled out the papers and flipped through them. She spotted the money and sat down in a chair to count it.
“Do you know how much is here?” she asked.
“Ninety-six dollars,” Mark said.
“Was there a money clip?”
“That’s all that was in there. The money was in the compartment under the side flap,” Mark explained.
She nodded. “I see. Perhaps the thieves took the money clip and thought that was all the money in here. They must not have searched the bag. I’m finding that strange.”
“Yes, it’s strange,” Maureen said. “Well, we’d best be going.” She moved away from the fireplace.
“Wait a moment,” Mrs. Hoag said. “What are your names?”
“I’m Maureen O’Callaghan,” she said, then quickly added, “Stevenson. This is my cousin, Mark Bowman.”
“And where would you be from, Maureen?” Mrs. Hoag asked.
“The Stevensons live about two blocks that way,” she said and pointed south.
“I mean in Ireland.”
“Castlebar in County Mayo,” Maureen answered. There was an interesting glint in Mrs. Hoag’s eyes that hadn’t been there before that gave Maureen courage to ask, “And you, Mrs. Hoag?”
“Mount Bellew in County Galway. I came over just after the famine. When did you come?”
“Our boat docked at New York on May 14, 1895, nearly eight years ago.” It was a day Maureen would never forget.
“Who was with you?”
“My mama and papa,” Maureen said with a catch in her throat.
“Where are they now?” Mrs. Hoag asked softly.
“Sleeping with the angels,” Maureen whispered.
It was almost as if the old woman willed the words out of Maureen. She told her the little she remembered about her papa, who’d been killed at work in a construction accident shortly after they had arrived in the United States. Maureen and her mama had immediately moved to Minneapolis, where her mama had found work as a live-in cook for Theodore and Nadine Stevenson. Eight months ago they had moved with the Stevensons to their new house near Mrs. Hoag’s home. They had been happy there until three months ago, when her mama had caught the flu. She’d thought it was nothing; but the fever had burned her up, and within a week she was dead.
With no family in the United States and none that she knew of in Ireland, Maureen had never felt so alone. She had cried over her mama and cried over her future. And Nadine Stevenson had cried with her and told her that she would be her new mother. She was unable to have children of her own and had always wanted a daughter. She said she’d known Maureen since she was four years old and loved her. She wouldn’t think of sending her to an orphanage. The only thing to do was start legal proceedings to adopt Maureen.
In one horrible, long afternoon, Maureen had moved from the downstairs servants’ quarters that she’d shared with her mama to an upstairs bedroom down the hall from her new parents. It was too much to take in. A month later, it was official; she was Maureen O’Callaghan Stevenson.
As Maureen wound up her tale, she blinked back tears.
“Nadine Stevenson is a fine woman,” Mrs. Hoag said.
“You know her?” Maureen asked.
“Yes. I knew her in the past.”
“Before your husband died and you never left your house?” M
ark asked. Then he covered his mouth with his hand.
Mrs. Hoag gave him a long hard look. “You’re finding it odd that I don’t go out and do like I once did?”
“It’s just that folks say you’re …” His voice trailed off.
Maureen couldn’t believe that Mark had nearly told Mrs. Hoag that people called her crazy.
“We think it’s time you got out again,” Maureen said, trying to cover for Mark’s blunder. “It doesn’t help to stay alone too much.” She was normally a quiet girl, but sharing her grief had made her bold, and she continued.
“It helps to talk about losing someone. It helped me just now to tell you about me mama… my mama,” she corrected herself, remembering what her teacher had said about speaking English correctly. “I’m thinking it would help you to talk about your husband and get back to doing whatever were your normal activities before he died.”
Now it was Maureen’s turn to get that long look from Mrs. Hoag. Had she overstepped her bounds? It was so hard to know these days where the line was. She’d been the cook’s daughter. Now she was the banker’s daughter. How was she to make sense of so many changes?
“You may be right,” Mrs. Hoag said. “I’ve been giving that some thought lately.”
Just then a voice came from behind Maureen and Mark. “Put your hands up! Put your hands up!”
They stuck their hands up over their heads. Had whoever stolen Mrs. Hoag’s purse come back to steal again? Maureen glanced at Mark, who was staring straight ahead, his eyes huge. Mrs. Hoag sat in front of them, her face screwed up, cackling a high, crazy laugh.
Who was behind them? And what was wrong with Mrs. Hoag? She was pounding on her knee now. Mark’s face had gone white.
“What do you want?” Maureen finally said, lowering her arms.
When she could stop cackling, Mrs. Hoag said, “That was Ruthie.”
“Ruthie?” Maureen repeated.
“Put your hands up!” the voice said again.
Maureen stuck her hands back up and slowly turned her head to see who was talking. She looked back at Mrs. Hoag, who started laughing all over again.
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